


Off Day

by Arya_Greenleaf



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathtub Sex, F/F, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-25 04:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20718215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Crowley looks down, clucking her tongue at the increasingly soggy bath mat. "Shit," she swears quietly and snaps her fingers and the water rights itself.Aziraphale laughs and sheds the last of her clothes. Crowley's expression turns from annoyed to smug. She flings her arm toward Aziraphale, fingers splayed in welcome. She is brazen in her bareness, chin up and chest out."Angels first," she says and inclines her head toward the steaming bath.





	Off Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely ducks, once again here's my disclaimer: I haven't watched the show yet and I read the book in a feverish rush.
> 
> It's been pointed out that there's a connection to some events on the show in some of what's here and that's totally unintentional!
> 
> ** [Delightful bit of art from ydnsm of Nanny and Rover, the demon weenie.](https://twitter.com/ydnsm1/status/1177996226341433344?s=20) **

Crowley is insubstantial behind Aziraphale; doing her best to melt entirely into the porcelain shell of the tub; desperately trying to soak up every last tiny bit of warmth she can. Crowley's long arms slip from the sides of the tub and splash carelessly into the water.

Beneath the surface, she runs her nails over Aziraphale's thighs. Her nails are well kept, short and shaped and lacquered with grey. Aziraphale chose the color, thinking that it would look nice when Crowley runs her fingers through her hair, the contrast of grey and copper a pleasant visual.[1]

Aziraphale sighs, content with herself.

***

They've the whole of the day to themselves, little Warlock whisked off by Grandmummy to do... something. It hadn't been too difficult in the whirlwind that the arrival of the Attaché’s parents to convince Mrs. Dowling to give both Nanny and Brother Francis the day off. Aziraphale isn't sure if any of the other household staff jumpped on the bandwagon but she isn't really rather concerned about it. It had been a quick trick to tick out of the garden gate to a secluded spot and a to make a nice little change.

Aziraphale walked around the property to the front and dear Nanny buzzed her in at the gate. They strolled arm-in-arm into the foyer, no one on the grounds who they pass any wiser, standing there in hardly the space of a few heartbeats before they're interrupted.

"I"ll fetch the pot for some tea, angel. We can sit in my room or out on the veranda, perhaps?"

"Oh, Nanny Ashtoreth -- you -- you've company?"

"Yes, Mrs. Dowling, I _do_ have the day to myself." Her tone is firm, the same way she speaks to Warlock.

"Of course, Nanny, of course. I just... might I join you?"

"I don't believe that would be entirely appropriate, Mrs. Dowling."

"It's just that I -- " The Attaché’s wife's chin quivers and she squares her shoulders. "Well, I haven't even introduced myself, have I?" She sticks out her hand and offers it to Aziraphale in that brisk way that Americans have about them. "I'm Harriet Dowling."

Aziraphale begins to answer and Crowley cuts her off. "This is _Ah_ \-- _Angelique_. She's French, can't understand a lick of English, dear, you must excuse us."

A little annoyed and equally amused, Aziraphale shakes Mrs. Dowling's hand delicately. "Oui."

"Oh, dear! _Bonjour, _Madame Angelique. Bienvenue chez nous!" She continues in what Aziraphale is sure earned her high marks in school but very likely wouldn't get her very far in actual conversation with someone fluent. She tries, and that's what's important, Aziraphale supposes.

Mrs. Dowling says something polite about the pattern of the lace gloves Aziraphale wears. "Merci."

"Well, Mrs. Dowling, we must be off now. I shall report back for duty in the morning, as agreed."

She nods, a little sad looking. "Yes, Nanny Ashtoreth." They begin to move around her, nearly clearing the foyer before she calls out again and waves. "Bonne visite, Madame Angelique!"

"Angelique? Really?" Aziraphale says in disbelief when they are well out of earshot. "I dearly wish you hadn't done that."

"Did you want to be rid of her quickly or not? I couldn't wait for you to come up with some song and dance. What's wrong with _Angelique_ anyway?"

"Bit obvious, isn't it?"

"Oh, not like _Brother Francis_, not at all."[2]

Aziraphale squints at her, hating to be had, and lets Crowley lead her up the stairs. Crowley's -- Ashtoreth's room, would be best if Mrs. Dowling was going to come poking around for a companion. The room is rather comfortable, much more so than Brother Francis's accommodations in the little garden house at the back of the property which were really by no means _uncomfortable, _but, a pang of jealousy burns in Aziraphale's chest for a moment all the same. She waves it away with the dust motes floating through the air in the mid-morning sunlight.

Crowley unpins her smart little hat and sheds her jacket. The electric kettle has started to make alarming sounds and she pauses in shaking out the impressive set of her curls to pour the boiled water into the impressive china pot. She's rather careless with the pair of tea bags she drops into hot bath before she pops the lid on and ignores it. Steam curls out of the spout lazily. The whole thing is like a still-life on a postcard at a tourist shop -- the delicate doily the pot sits atop, the floral pattern on the china, the perfect little circle of the table and pair of chairs in the cozy sitting area.

Aziraphale stretches and slouches a bit in her seat, hands folded atop her belly. She could doze waiting for the tea to brew if not for the distracting way in which Crowley is kicking off her shoes and folding herself down into her own chair. Coiling down, really, planting one stoking'ed leg down on the seat and lowering herself, then smoothly lifting the other and tucking it beneath her body.

Her blouse today is a delightful plum, one that Aziraphale picked out at the shops, utterly besotted with how well it complimented her.[3] Crowley continues her deliberate unwinding, yanking the knot at her throat apart and opening the first few buttons.

"Trying to tempt me, demon?"

Crowley snorts and shifts her glasses to the top of her head. "Wouldn't dream of it, angel."

It's always strange on odd days when the family is away or Warlock is simply not underfoot, how utterly quiet the house is. Aziraphale watches Crowley take a sip from the pretty cup she's poured. There is a ghost of her lips on the rim, purpley-red. The house seems more quiet than usual, or at least more quiet than Aziraphale can recall having not been inside of it very often. A phone rings somewhere in the distance before it's silenced. A pair of feet in hard-soled shoes taps down the corridor.

"Perhaps we should have allowed Mrs. Dowling to join us for tea."

"_What_?" Crowley squawks around a mouthful of biscuit. Little blonde crumbs escape with the sound and she dabs a bit of raspberry jam from her bottom lip.[4] Her expression churns across her features for a moment and she deflates. "She did seem rather lonely."

"Does the poor dear have any friends at all?"

"I truly couldn't say. My focus is on the child."

"Should we -- " Aziraphale's voice turns up in question and she shakes her head, answering herself. "No, we shouldn't get too close, I'd think."

"Right." Crowley's brow remains knitted and she shoves the half biscuit still pinched between her fingers into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Aziraphale can see the gardens through the window. Crowley is framed in the cheery sunlight and the cacophony of flora reaching skyward from the ground. Crowley was fond of the larkspur and gladiolus, although she wouldn't admit to as much. Aziraphale had managed a bit of a very small miracle and coaxed them to shoot up well beyond their average height to climb up the back wall of the big old estate house. It wasn't unusual, when Nanny watched her charge in the gardens hawk-like from that window, to see her grumbling at the blooms and spraying them with a little plastic bottle of water like they were a bunch of naughty cats on stems. She'd begged Brother Francis to plant just a wee patch of aconite and he simply would not hear of it.[5]

"But they're so _beautiful_," she'd argued, arms crossed and rouged lips pursed in a dramatic pout. It had been rather difficult to deny her if Aziraphale was perfectly honest.

Pot of tea well and gone, and nary a crumb left to be had, they must decide how to laze through the rest of their day. Crowley is shuffling the refuse of their teatime into the bin when Rover whines from the massive, lumpy dog bed in the corner.

"Ah, awake now, are you?"

The dog, truly unusual looking with his grey coat and striking red eyes, picks up his head and whines again.

"Didn't you come with a much larger creature in tow?"

Crowley scoffs. "A proper hound, yes."

"This can't be the same one," Aziraphale says. She picks up her feet as the small, long dog gallops across the room on four truly stubby legs.

"It is! Had to make him change. The child was terrified of him, I could hardly give him a proper education with him cowering behind my skirt all the time."

"I honestly thought you'd just gotten rid of it -- sent it back to -- to where it came from."

The dog puts its fat little feet on Crowley's shin and lets out a sharp little bark. The sound makes Aziraphale's skin crawl and sends a jolt straight down her spine.

"_You_ aren't supposed to look like that, Rover. You're meant to look like a boring normal pet."

The dog's tail wags, whip-like.

"I showed you -- black and tan. The Antichrist was very specific in his desires. You're supposed to be helping prepare him for his very own hound."

It barks again and Aziraphale can hardly hide how she cringes. Crowley seems none the wiser, continuing to talk to the creature.

"Is it this you want, then?" She gestures to the paper napkin she's swept the crumbs off the table into. Rover whines again.

"It wants a biscuit?"

"Gracious -- _ack_ \-- no. He wants the napkin. Doesn't deserve it though! Hasn't terrorized Mrs. Dowling's parakeet _at all_ in nearly a _week_." She sighs and the dog puts its feet back on the floor. "Fine, _fine_."

Crowley crumples the napkin and pitches it back toward Rover's bed. The dog chases after it with a wagging tail and skids to a halt just before it crashes into the circular cushion. Crowley plucks the soggy, cold tea bags from the pot and walks over to the dog's bed. Dangling them from her pinched fingertips, she lets them drop onto the floor with a wet _plop_. Rover barks and tears into them with gusto.

Aziraphale's mortification must show on her face because Crowley stifles a laugh. "He's from Hell, angel."

"Well, I finally know who has been knocking over the bins and digging up my tulip bulbs all this time, I suppose."

After a breath of silence Crowley _laughs_. Truly laughs, clutching her stomach, while her cheeks turn pink. "Aziraphale, we've been here for _five years_."

"Well I -- you don't --and _Warlock_ \--" Aziraphale sputters, taken back by the uninhibited wheezing Crowley isn't even remotely trying to contain.

"Oh, angel," Crowley croaks. "You've gone all red." She steps forward and reaches out, her palm landing softly against Aziraphale's cheek.

The angel's skin feels hot under Crowley's hand. 

"How about a bath?" Crowley breathes. "I can't remember the last time I had one."

"Well," Aziraphale snips, coming back to herself. "That explains the stench of fire and brimstone." She can't help but laugh.

"Come on, I've got one of those fizzy things you won't admit to liking." Crowley slips past, brushing Aziraphale very purposefully as she moves. She yanks her blouse up from the waist of her skirt as she goes toward the little ensuite.

Minutes pass in which Aziraphale listens to the water in the bathtub run and watches the stunted hell hound happily gnaw on a used tea bag, spilling its soggy contents onto the polished wood floor.

"Angel?" Crowley's head and shoulders dip out from the doorway, pale and bare. "Aren't you coming?"

The dog sneezes and the sodden flakes of tea spray out across the floor. "Yes, of course. Coming."

The tub is running, the room already slowly filling with a shimmering cloud of steam. Crowley is stepping out of her skirt and hanging it from the towel rack where her blouse is already draped. She pats the thing and the rung the fabric hangs on rattles just a little. Aziraphale cannot abide the careless puddling of clothes on the floor. Crowley knows.

Aziraphale turns away to disrobe, shucking her thick sweater and cotton blouse and linen trousers rather quickly. Crowley crowds in behind her and closes the door with a click. "You've worn the boring brassiere," she hisses softly, plucking at a strap.

"It's functional."

"Who cares about functional? How about feeling nice -- that's a function." She unfastens the row of little metal hooks, glossy nails cool and hard as they slip against Aziraphale's skin. "I know you like to feel nice."

Aziraphale can't help but roll her eyes. She drapes her clothing beside Crowley's and turns with her hands on her hips, perfectly defiant. "The tub is overflowing."

"Mhm." Crowley slips her fingers into the high waistband of Aziraphale's knickers, fingering the soft cotton. The elastic covers her navel, comfortable against the wobbly bulk of her belly. "I am inexplicably fond of these though."[6]

"The tub, Crowley."

Crowley looks down, clucking her tongue at the increasingly soggy bath mat. "Shit," she swears quietly and snaps her fingers and the water rights itself.

Aziraphale laughs and sheds the last of her clothes. Crowley's expression turns from annoyed to smug. She flings her arm toward Aziraphale, fingers splayed in welcome. She is brazen in her bareness, chin up and chest out.

"Angels first," she says and inclines her head toward the steaming bath.

Aziraphale takes the offered hand and steps over the high side of the tub in two neat steps. She lowers herself into the hot water -- far too hot for her own tastes. Crowley is fussing with something in the cabinet and then suddenly there is a _plop!_ and the water just in front of Aziraphale explodes in waves of fizzy orange and yellow. The scent of lemon cakes fills the vapor-heavy air.

"Don't pretend to object to frivolous indulgences," Crowley teases and steps into the tub. "I won't tattle." She draws her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around, and peers out from behind them. Her toes touch Aziraphale's beneath the shimmery water. "This is nice."

"It's not very comfortable, is it?" The bath is suddenly just a bit larger, longer and wider to accommodate their collective limbs. Aziraphale purses her lips and doesn't acknowledge the little self-indulgent miracle. She only turns, pressing her body between Crowley's legs.

Aziraphale dozes, contentment a potent sedative. Crowley's hands are gentle. They touch her arms and her thighs with such care it is like she might be breakable. When they break the surface they shimmer in the watery-grey light streaming through the little window, a glittery residue clinging to her skin.

She looks celestial.

Aziraphale shifts in the clutch of Crowley's legs. Her body is loose, floating in more than just the hot bath. "It really is rather lovely to have a day off. Keeping up with the garden _and_ the Antichrist can be so taxing."

Crowley snorts, her body trembling with it. "You can hardly call what you do _keeping up with the garden_."

"Excuse me," Aziraphale laughs, "The grounds are _flourishing_."

"Yes, and it's not like you've actually done any work. You just kind of sit in the middle of everything and think about making it all green and nice." Crowley affects a low voice and a bit of received pronunciation. "And then Aziraphale said, _Let there be flora_ \-- and there was flora. Loads of it, half not even native to the area."[7] Her arms slip around, encircling Aziraphale as if to trap her. "How can you call yourself a gardener if you never have even the tiniest speck of dirt under your fingernails? Nary a sunspot on your nose."[8]

"Work smarter, Crowley-dear, not harder."

"That's not very angel-_ique_ of you."

"_Non_," Aziraphale teases, "just sensible."

Crowley's hands glide under the water, mapping the shapes of Aziraphale's body -- the curve of her breasts, the substance of her belly. She cranes her neck forward in a way that can't possibly be comfortable, rubbing her nose and lips against the crook of Aziraphale's neck.

"Crowley _stop_ teasing."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort."

"You know I don't like to be teased."

Crowley _teases_, scraping her nails over the thin skin at the crux[9] of Aziraphale's legs. She pinches a wobbly bit of thigh and her hands creep up, threatening a pinch at a very alert nipple.

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathes.

"_Ngk_. That's the ticket, angel."

Aziraphale seizes her wrist, thin and hard, and guides Crowley's hand back beneath the water. A droplet of sweat creeps down over her temple. It's the steam, Aziraphale is sure.

When Crowley teases, she is wicked. When Crowley ceases to tease, she is _wicked_. She doesn't waste time, fingers knowing where to go. They are practiced, exhaustively rehearsed. Aziraphale breathes deeply and slowly. Crowley's yet unoccupied hand clutches at her, drawing her impossible close.

Ages ago, Aziraphale would have balked. _Be fruitful_, Crowley would argue.[10] _Context_, Aziraphale would counter. In the last several decades, Aziraphale has given the matter considerable thought. There were no formal sacraments in the Garden. Adam and Eve were united because it was an ineffable conclusion.

Aziraphale squeezes her thighs, trapping Crowley's wrist and holding her hand in just the right place. It's easy to focus on the stroke of clever fingers and the press of Crowley's palm. The soles of her feet grow warm in a different way than the warmth that envelops them. It's easy to let herself be carried off with it. She grabs at Crowley's knees for want of something more to hold onto. She closes her eyes, very aware of Crowley's breath on her shoulder.

The angel snarls in frustration at the distant sound of a knock on the door -- a hesitant, if loud, _taptaptap_ outside of the bedroom. "Nanny Ashtoreth? Will Madame Angelique be staying for dinner? Perhaps spending the night. I can have the guest suite made up in two shakes! Fresh linens, you know." Mrs. Dowling's voice, muted by lumber and distance, is terribly hopeful.

Crowley makes a quiet, annoyed sound. "I can accommodate my guest just fine, _thank you_," she says, throwing her voice just a bit in the kind of small and frivolous miracle that Aziraphale finds maddening. "You should enjoy the quiet evening, Mrs. Dowling."

"Oh, I -- of course, Nanny. You're right as always." She sounds utterly dejected. "Do let me know if you need anything."

There is quiet for several heartbeats before the floor creaks softly.

"Crow --," Aziraphale hisses. She hardly gets the syllable out before Crowley returns to her task. Her fingers slide easily, smooth and slick even under the water.

"You aren't going to help me at all then?" Crowley croons. Her voice drops, "Some attention for the _tid-bit_."[11]

Aziraphale ignores the well-intentioned taunt, releasing the tension in her legs and her grip on Crowley's knees.

The bathroom falls silent, a vacuum. The sounds of the water splashing against the sides of the tub and labored breathing hit Aziraphale's ears as if through a heavy pane of glass. Crowley's fingers curl inside of her -- fingertips pressing forward and knuckles pressing back. She flicks her fingers, fast and hard, over the very tip of that _tid-bit_.

It's curious every time. The sudden build of tension -- the electric tingle that tickles up the length of her legs and into her back and then the base of her skull -- the outward rush of heat, like a dying star shedding the gases of its outer shells at a fantastic rate.

Aziraphale wonders if it's the same for Crowley. She is always so quiet in her climaxes, body coiled tightly and teeth clenched -- nails dug into Aziraphale's arms or legs or shoulders carving out little crescent moons. 

"Angel," Crowley rasps and hauls Aziraphale as close as bodily possible. She trembles, feet braced against the end of the tub and toes poking just out of the water, flicking at a nervous speed.

Something solid _thunks! _against the bathroom door. Something scratches, like a heavy chisel across the wood. The growl that shatters the glass-pane silence is startling, the bark that follows like the last thing that some truly wicked being might ever hear.

Aziraphale flinches and the door rattles in its frame. Everything that built up lets go in a wave. She is exhausted all at once, sagging in Crowley's arms for a moment until the door _bangs!_ and the terrifying barking continues. Adrenaline racks her body, sinking its teeth into her torso and catching against her ribs. 

"Crowley?" her voice is high and reedy with conflict of feeling.

"It's fine, angel, its fine --" 

_Bang!_

Holding tight to Aziraphale, Crowley's chest heaves. She's careful, taking her hands away, even with how she's trembling, too.

_Bang!_

Crowley's voice becomes something as terrible as the barking. She snarls in the general direction of the door and the thing on the other side quiets.

"I think Rover's finally figured out what you are. He is slow on the uptake, it's he? You're too bright when you do that."

Aziraphale laughs, nerves all let go in a bark of her own. "That little thing?"

"No, I suspect he's back to his old self. Agitated by all that celestial energy your throwing about."

Crowley's vice-like clutch of limbs relaxes. The mood has changed. She stands in the tub behind Aziraphale, dripping and shimmering, a glittery shine all over her skin and in the coppery hair between her legs. Her face is swallowed in shadow from where Azirphale turns to observe her.

"Perhaps," Crowley says from above, "Brother Francis should have a visitor next time."

From the other side of the door, Rover whines just as before.

* * *

1\. The color was called Rub-a-Pub-Pub and Aziraphale is quite sure Things I've Seen in Amber-green would have been better, c'est la vie. [Back to text.]

2\. Aziraphale had thought the character of Brother Francis was rather clever. The reference had been entirely lost on the Dowlings, who, while observant of their faith in general were not well versed in the wider tradition of saints and martyrs. [Back to text.]

3\. The white silk had been out of the question, Crowley claimed when Aziraphale selected it, because little Warlock had a terrible habit of rubbing his messy face against her. Aziraphale conceded. Human children were in a near constant state of soil. [Back to text.]

4\. Viennese Whirls are the sweetest thing Aziraphale has ever seen Crowley consume. She does so infrequently but in astonishingly large quantities. [Back to text.]

5\. The larkspur and gladiolus complimented each other surprisingly well with their startling violet and red petals, respectively. Both were funeral flowers and yet, so terribly cheery. The aconite -- or wolfsbane or devil's helmet -- was decidedly poisonous and frankly the idea was to raise the Antichrist, not kill him accidentally. [Back to text.]

6\. Aziraphale's style notes when presenting in this manner often had a bit of a Hepburn flare. The taller Hepburn. Her undergarments reflected the same inspiration: sensible and structurally sound. [Back to text.]

7\. The only way something like a mango, or the lemon tree that Crowley knows Aziraphale picks citrus from for the cakes that prompted her choice of bath accoutrements, could grow on English soil would be by tremendous Heavenly effort. The Dowlings' garden had both. [Back to text.]

8\. Brother Francis always wears a hat in the garden. There's no reason to affect any unnecessary blemishes. [Back to text.]

9\. Traditionally, a _crux_ is an instrument of torture. This isn't much different. [Back to text.]

10\. The Word, as it turns out, is rather sex-positive. Crowley insists upon a literal reading, purposefully obtuse about deeper meaning within the historic and cultural context of the writing. And _really_ using Christ's condemnation of adultery specifically rather than lustful action as a whole is utterly ridiculous. Aziraphale prefers generally not to take chances on contradictory writing by fallible humans. [Back to text.]

11\. Often a beacon of anachronistic speech, Aziraphale used slang planted firmly in the very beginning of the 20th Century to tell Crowley what she wanted in their very first flustered meeting while appearing in this particular body. Crowley found it charming and will not allow her to forget it. [Back to text.]

**Author's Note:**

> I love love comments :)
> 
> This wasn't really the work I set out to write and any roughness is purely an invention of my own frustration that I could not better wrangle it.


End file.
